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The Words
by Nicole Yurcaba When the phone rings, I’m not sure how much time has passed. I have been rejuvenating in warm water and purple-scented bubbles for long, unprecedented minutes. I have been fully immersed in the pages of The Pinball Theory of Apocalypse, recalling how as a child I played on a computer simulation of the moon’s orbit around Earth, and I made the moon crash into Earth. It’s funny now to remember that while the moon exploded, Earth remained unharmed. Hmmmm…. The phone’s screaming reminds me that today I will be forced to participate in humanity, that I will have to close the book, leave the bath, don clothing, and actually have to socialize with people. The mere thought of interacting with another human makes me want to maniacally shed tears, to shroud myself in a mood blacker than Morticia Addams’s dress. Today is not a day for people. Today is a day for books. Today I desire only the lover’s touch of words. *** When I was in kindergarten, I began to learn that people were inherently evil and that words were a gateway to freedom. As I sat on the classroom floor with the rest of my K-2 classmates, I rolled my eyes as the teacher explained in baby terms how the moon revolves around the Earth. I knew this information already, as at age 4, I’d read that portion of the encyclopedia to my Baba Anna as we sat on the front porch of her Trevorton home. Unable to control my boredom any longer, I blurted “In 1969, Neil Armstrong was the first man on the moon, but some people don’t actually believe he did. They’re called ‘conspiracy theorists.’” The kindergarten teacher, whom I graciously referred to as “Mrs. R.,” glared at me, the fear of the unknown resonating in her witchy blue eyes. My classmates stared at me; some even scooted away from me, fearing I was a freak, and they awaited for either me or the teacher to speak. “Can you imagine if the moon crashed into the Earth? That would be bad,” I said simply to break the silence and to create more awkward stares. Finally, Mrs. R. spoke. “It’s nice that you know everything,” she seethed, “Now, go to your desk and sit with your head down.” The punishment didn’t fit the crime. I had simply presented facts and then posed a critical thinking question. Why was I being sent to my desk? Why was I being removed from the beloved K-2 class circle? I wanted to call her “Stalin.” “Why?” I asked. “Because,” Mrs. R. responded, her face twitching slightly, “You’re speaking out of turn.” But that was just a cover for her true feelings. Since I first entered her classroom on a crisp post-Labor Day September morning, Mrs. R had hated me. I was an intellectual hell-on-wheels with which she could not reckon; however, begrudgingly I lifted myself from the eerie orange carpet and trundled to my desk. “May I read?” I asked. A few kids snickered; others gasped, but Mrs. R. began to show exasperation. “NO!” she yelled, “You sit there! With your head down! You don’t move! And you don’t speak! NOW!” I felt all the eyes on the room watching me as I walked to my desk, pulled out my chair, and placed my head on the desk’s cool surface. My face flushed not with embarrassment but with anger tinged with glee. I wasn’t like the rest of those that sat in the circle. I was different, and I knew I was different. So I closed my eyes, and I daydreamed of sweet, luscious, delicious words printed virginally on a pristine page. Weeks later, I found myself being led by the school secretary to an isolated room somewhere in the school’s antiseptic-looking basement. The adventure made me imagine being a Cold War spy—Young Philby perhaps (whom I read about in one of my father’s favorite espionage novels). When we reached our destination, though, my daydream swirled quickly into a standardized nightmare when I saw our chubby, glasses-eyed, somewhat-effeminate guidance counselor, Mr. S, sitting at a wide tan-topped table that harbored stacks of thin-paged test booklets. Mr. S. smiled as the secretary pushed me into the dimly lit, blue-walled room. “Good morning. Please have a seat so we can begin,” he announced in a tone that made me think of penguins. I took a seat before him, ready to be punished for my crimes, feeling sad that I, the greatest spook of them all, would now be interrogated by our school’s version of Mr. Magoo. Mr. S placed a booklet and two pencils before me. “Are these Ticonderogas?” I asked Mr. S. “Excuse me?” Mr. S. quipped, unsure of what he was hearing. “Are these pencils Ticonderogas? I can only write with Ticonderoga Number-Twos,” I stated. “A pencil is a pencil is a pencil,” Mr. S said, “They are all made of wood and lead.” I shook my pony-tailed head. “Technically, it’s graphite,” I corrected, “and these pencils aren’t Ticonderogas. You have some Ticonderogas behind you on the shelf. I’ll take two of those, please.” Mr. S., who’d begun to resemble Mrs. R. the day I taught her about Neil Armstrong and the moon, turned around and quickly retrieved two Ticonderoga pencils from the box behind him. He swapped the generic pencils with the Ticonderogas, and then he shifted in his seat. “We’ll begin with Reading,” he announced. And so I devoured the words. *** Twenty-one years ago, my inability to control my mouth in kindergarten and a few test results sealed my academic fate as well as my social realm--one for the better, one for the worse. No ADHD. No mental disorder. No Aspberger’s. No unheard-of social disorder. Gifted. My following school years were a myriad of gifted classes, of isolated library hours, of nearly-aced AP exams, of hours’ worth of bullying victimization. My range of friends was few to none, except for a book in my handbag waiting to be read or a blank journal in my bookbag dying to be filled. People and societies, throughout the years, proved themselves to be furthermore inherently evil than what I realized on that fateful day in Mrs. R.’s kindergarten class: either people wanted you for your brains, or they wanted you for your body, or people didn’t want you at all; in American society, a woman could not be both beautiful and popular and intelligent, she had to be either one or the other, and from little up she was taught that, really, her body will get her farther in life than her brains. A woman had to choose. I didn’t drink the Kool-Aid. I didn’t devour the propaganda. I avoided the Cosmopilitan and instead chose the Walden. Which is why, at 27 years old, I find myself lounging naked in a tub sized-for-one as the water’s warmth begins to temper, devouring a few more chapters in The Pinball Theory of Apocalypse, wondering why the person calling me keeps calling, why his need to speak to me is overpowering, great. Yes, the phone confirms the brutal truth that there is at least one person requiring my presence, one person wanting to speak to me, but I’m not sure why. At nearly 30, I find myself primarily always alone with a book. I have more books, more blank journals, more publication credits than I have friends, than I have people that I genuinely trust. Humanity has failed not only me, but also others like me, especially other women like me, but I have tapped into my orenda via words, succulent words. Nonetheless, being forced to communicate, to socialize, to actually talk to people is a thrust by an invisible hand into a world in which I do not belong. I have never fit. I have never belonged. I have always been offbeat yet always in rhythm to my own tune. In so many ways, though I’m approaching 30, I am still that smart-assed, pony-tailed, constantly-questioning kindergartener. And I am still alone, staring at the world from its outskirts as I lie with my head on the desk’s cool surface dreaming of the words--the lusty, inviting, taunting words printed so immaculately on a pristine page or on a flawless screen—and waiting for the moon to crash into the Earth. |
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